


We Just End -- Grab Your Friend

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon's Gay Cousin, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is an idiot, First Kiss, Flipping Off Your Bosses, Getting Together, God Saved The Braincells For Humans, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Making Out, Mild Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: Of course, they had a plan. Once the first was done, they'll go to St. James park, sit at the usual bench, and wait for the other to catch up.It was almost embarrassing how quickly that plan went out the window.Or,Sometimes you just gotta say "fuck waiting" and make out with your s/o in elevator between your respective Head Offices. Yes that's valid.





	We Just End -- Grab Your Friend

**Author's Note:**

> BIG thank you to twitter user @crowleysgalaxy for inspiring this fic!!!!!! Good Lord, this was really fun to write!!! 
> 
> Title from Gerard Way's "The Bureau", which is so Ineffable Husband's it hurts, except for the sound itself (I'll die on a hill for Crowley having a short-lived britpop/punk phase but even I can't kid myself with Aziraphale). Give it a listen! While your reading this, after you read this, however the spirit moves you, it's a phenomenal song!  
> Tbh I might make a whole series based off "Hesitant Alien" songs. "Maya The Psychic" has always been a Muse for me...

The Hellfire, as expected, was as comfortable as a warm bath. It licked curiously around the figure of Aziraphale, as if to say, “Oh, a demon! Yes, we know _you_ , you’re cool, no burnt corporations on your end _._ ” Crowley gave a contented sigh, cracking his neck like he’d seen Aziraphale do a handful of times before, when he was at his most relaxed. 

_If you_ think _about singeing even a fiber of the coat,_ Crowley thought all the same, _I’ll be sure to banish you to the dampest corner of the Ninth Circle. Try me._

The archangels looked on in horror. They expected this to be a quick and easy execution. As soon as Aziraphale was…no longer, they’d call up a demon to bring the fire back downstairs, then they’d sweep up the leftover ashes and call it a day. No other angels would bear witness, lest they get _ideas, Heaven forbid._ Every step of the plan was based on Aziraphale still feeling enough allegiance to listen to them, and that more than anything made his skin crawl. 

Still. Forced pleasantries and lack of real argumentation aside, it felt _very_ good to blow some fire in their direction. 

If their situations were reversed, Crowley wouldn’t just walk in. He’d try his hardest to find an edge, to give them any reason to reconsider, to think him useful. Potential was a precious commodity in Hell. Granted, that plan would get off the ground about as easily as a dead pigeon, but still; if Crowley was given the choice, he’d find some way to stick around, then spend the next few centuries plotting a daring escape and a means to get back home, to Aziraphale and Earth. 

But he isn’t given the choice: he wasn’t even _Crowley_ right now. It hurt to have to do this, to play to an Aziraphale who wouldn’t even consider an out and was still so enthralled to Heaven’s rules that he’d accept his punishment like he actually deserved it. What if that piece of page hadn’t conveniently floated into the angel’s hand? _Would_ he have walked right in? 

In order to quell that wretched idea, he thought back to the night prior, where he and Aziraphale sat side-by-side on his couch, hands clasped between them. How Aziraphale had resolutely refused to stop searching for a solution, with his face eventually lighting up on the body swap. 

He had promised himself, once, that he would slow down for Aziraphale. He’d wait as long as he could for him. But in the face of their imminent doom, he couldn’t wait any longer. 

_“Angel,” he had said, quietly. “I…”_

_Aziraphale shushed him. “I know, dear." He had brought Crowley's hand up to where his heart should be. It was a promise._ _"But this isn’t the end, and I won’t have you talking like it is. Save it for_ after _our daring escapes, won’t you?”_

It wasn't that he didn't want the words, or that he wasn't ready for them. Aziraphale genuinely didn't want Crowley to think that this was the end. It had made that anatomically useless heart swell to three times it's size.

Well, with that logic, what was one more day? 

From this spot, Crowley couldn’t really make out what the angels were saying. He was still standing primly in the heart of the pillar of Hellfire. It roared even louder than usual fire with the distant screams of the damned, so even the acoustics of Heaven weren’t really enough. Moving outside the circle of flames before he was instructed to was also off the table. 

But after a few minutes, something crept into his consciousness. His smugness at their fearful faces was starting to get ruined with a tinge of anxiety. Angels and demons weren’t particularly imaginative, but they weren’t _entirely_ stupid. If they caught onto their little ruse, they would be toast.

Or, rather, _he’d_ be roughly the consistency of runny glue -- _Aziraphale_ would be toast. 

He felt his insides coil uncomfortably at that thought, and fiddled with the ring like Aziraphale always did. With a silent curse, he realized he was also beginning to slouch, and he forced his back straight while the angels were still conferring amongst themselves. He schooled his face into benevolence, even as his thoughts turned dark. 

_Come on_ , he thought, equal parts vicious and desperate. _Come on, you great feathery idiots, you never question anything, don’t question_ this _. Just let us go now, you've had your fun already._

They finally glanced back at him, and Aziraphale’s borrowed face gave a pleasant smile. Gabriel's own face screwed up in a scowl, and he gestured him forward with a flick of his fingers. Dutifully, Crowley stepped out of the flames, hands behind his back, hoping to look the part of an angel-turned-something-new. Embers still clung to his ankles and the tips of his hair, latching onto his demonic presence. He kept them there, anyway, for the sake of intimidation.

"Now that was _refreshing,_ " he marvelled. "Will that be all? I do have a bookshop to return to, and I don't think anyone here will want to stop me." He raised an eyebrow for emphasis, a spark falling onto the pristine white marble.

Uriel and Sandalphon looked like they were one sharp movement by Crowley away from bolting out of the execution chamber. Gabriel's frown only deepened since Crowley exited the Hellfire. His eyes narrowed. Whether they were in scrutiny or contempt, Crowley couldn’t tell. 

"Aziraphale," he said. "Well. Congratulations. I don't know _what_ you are, now, but I think it's safe to say you don't belong _here_."

Crowley forced down a laugh. Yeah, his angel _definitely_ didn't belong here, and that wasn't the condemnation he thought of six millennia ago. Heaven could keep its echoing emptiness and harsh cleanliness. 

He thought of Aziraphale’s home, the one he made on Earth. A crowded bookshop, cluttered and dusty, the texts full of imperfections and humanity. He thought of full glasses, tiny cakes, soft hands over book bindings. He wondered how to put that into words.

"I think so, yes," he agreed instead. 

"So," Gabriel continued. "Stay on Earth." He paused, then said, with something very menacing colouring his tone, " _Enjoy it_. And hey, if Hell ever lets that friend of yours out again, at least you won't be lonely."

Now, up until that point, Crowley had kept the possibilities of what Heaven and Hell could do to straightforward execution. It made sense: both of them were a threat and an embarrassment to their head offices, they wouldn’t want to drag it out. Besides, if he let his mind wander to how Hell could make Aziraphale suffer, beyond just him _being_ down there, then the jig was up. He'd lose his carefully kept cool, and something not very angelic would work its way into his performance, one way or another. 

But at Gabriel's parting words, Heaven became rancid and gloomy and damp, and instead of three shaken angels, Crowley could only see one -- the only one who mattered -- chained in a pit or to the rack or any torture device you care to name. Hell wasn't creative, but it was relentless. And eventually, if they chose, they'd get Aziraphale to break (and his heart wormed itself into his throat at the thought of _that_ , but despite his best efforts his imagination conjured images of it in graphic detail) and only a touch of Hellfire would be the end of it.

The dread must've made itself known in his face because Gabriel's eyes finally sparked with something ugly. It was triumph, disgust, glee, all rolled into one. He cursed Aziraphale's expressiveness for just a moment. Yes, it would help convince them, but it was also giving them a sign of weakness. Heaven may pretend to be above Hell, but Crowley didn’t think for a moment that they were any less cruel.

Crowley took a steadying breath, then said, with a kindness he (very, very, _very_ secretly) admired in Aziraphale but found himself loathing at this moment, "It _was_ lovely knowing you all, truly. If you ever find yourself on Earth…” he trailed off. “Well, maybe _eventually_ we can have a laugh about this.” 

Never, _never_ , for the rest of eternity that they had left, will Crowley ever let Heaven get within a solar system of Aziraphale. But Aziraphale would extend one last olive branch, just for the sake of it, and Crowley had to keep the mask up.

“Not likely,” Gabriel grit out. 

Well, at least Crowley and Aziraphale would have a laugh about this, that much was for certain. 

“Ah,” Crowley said, shrugging. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me.” And he briskly walked out of Heaven. His gait was self-assured, evenly paced, and to give himself credit he only started to run once he got to the back exit. 

It was the only direct line to Earth that also included Hell. It was ancient, changing shape according to the age. Whatever shape it took, though, it was always dingy and rusted. He was loathe to use it, everything in him screaming to stick with the plan, but he found himself moving towards it almost magnetically. He reasoned that he could just hide outside of the doors, just until he was sure that Aziraphale got out. Barely anyone used this method anyway, wasn’t like he’d be seen. 

He felt so distant with rising panic that he felt like this plan was being whispered to him by an outside force, his own demon on his shoulder. 

He wondered if this was how Aziraphale felt when Crowley would needle on about one more bottle, or that bright new poet doing a reading nearby, or any particular fancy that would prolong their time together. 

He pressed the button of the service elevator, and only relaxed his posture when the doors were fully closed and the damned thing began to move. They weren’t out of the woods yet. Aziraphale was still down below. 

* * *

Aziraphale had always loved performances. He’d dabbled in the theatre scene in the twenties, when Crowley’s nap was beginning to get especially boring, and found a certain fascination for silent acting. 

It required dramatic expressions and exaggeration in movements. Privately, it reminded him of Crowley, and it helped soothe the boredom and longing that he left in his absence. 

Good thing that he spent so much time working on it, then, as he applied every lesson he learnt into _this_ performance. If he wasn’t careful, it wouldn’t just be the last of his life; it would be the last of Crowley’s, too. 

Getting undressed had been…uncomfortable, to say the least, what with so many cruel, prying eyes. He didn't feel good about it, especially considering it wasn't even his body, but he knew that Crowley would've taken the time to preserve his outfit, and wouldn’t mind -- at least not in the same protective but outside way that Aziraphale was -- if demons caught a glimpse of his knees and arms. And that was all they were going to see, by God: Aziraphale had purposefully picked out a modest swimsuit for this very occasion. He also knew that, if they _didn't_ have this plan, Crowley would've prolonged the sentence for as long as possible, in hope of something barging in to save him.

Aziraphale, himself, suppressed a wince at the dismal state of Hell’s floors. He wasn’t even in the blasted tub yet, and already his socks were wet with a filth that he’d rather not think about. 

Eventually, the jeering crowd grew restless, and Hastur gripped him by the strap of his swimsuit, shoving him towards the bathtub while maintaining a safe distance. Aziraphale caught himself on the lip, trying to convey fear while the water lapped peacefully at the edge. 

"Right, in you get," Beelzebub drawled. "Don't waste our time now."

It wasn't a request, not a choice. Hastur and Dagon still hovered near enough to manhandle him like they did to that usher, and the door was crammed with lesser demons. It was an ultimatum: get in, or we shove you in ourselves. 

"Sure," Aziraphale swallowed. He gingerly stepped in, and closed his eyes with impending horror. 

The water was a little chilly, and he suppressed a hysterical giggle at the thought -- ice water in Hell and all that. He forced himself to look relieved, even if his insides swam with fear at being caught. All they needed now was for a touch of suspicion and for either side to decide to test their natural weapons on them.

He made a show of slowly submerging himself up to his collarbone, then went boneless in the water. He let his legs rest on the rim of the tub, and took a certain delight in the hissing noises that came from droplets hitting the cracked, grey tiles. It cut through Hell's own grey dampness like bleach through a stain.

"Bit nippy, but otherwise very nice," he said, getting an eyeful of the reactions of the Dukes and Prince of Hell. "You wanna give it a go?" He splashed a little in their direction, and they all cringed in on themselves, eyes wide with horror. 

Despite himself, he took a certain guilty glee in making the higher-ups of Hell flinch. Having this embarrassment of a “trial,” killing the Usher in order to make Crowley even more hopelessly intimidated, all leading up to erasing the only demon who bothered to question a pointlessly destructive war from the very fabric of reality…well, Aziraphale almost couldn’t help himself.

He languidly flicked the water at the glass partition, grinning with spite, even if all his negative emotions were directed at those on the other side of the tub. The demons backed away, regardless. 

"I don't suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell, there's such thing as a rubber duck?" He called out. He carefully scanned the reactions of the Demonic Council, disguising it as a smug look. "No?"

They murmured amongst themselves as Aziraphale gave a particularly soothed sigh, sinking further into the bath.

"…Not one of _uzzs_ anymore," Beelzebub said.

 _Cruel beyond contempt? Ruthless? Willing to sacrifice anything and everything just to prove a long-dead point?_ Aziraphale thought. _No, and I don't believe he ever was._

He risked a glance back to the partition, watching the lesser demons scatter under Beelzebub's shouted orders. With a sudden pang of guilt, he wondered whether there were any demons like Crowley. Okay, obviously not, _no one_ was like Crowley, but maybe, somewhere in these depths, there was a demon who only needed a touch of kindness to become something else. Something --

 _Focus_ , he told himself. _Getting sentimental now won't do either of you any good._

Thankfully, Michael turned up just at that moment, and Aziraphale was given the opportunity to reaffirm his Crowley-ness.

"Michael, dude! Do us a quick miracle, will you? I need a bath towel," He asked, in a tone that Aziraphale would never dream of using to an Archangel. He sprawled out, arm extended lazily in anticipation, in a way that would never have flown in Heaven.

Michael looked shocked, without a trace of recognition in her eyes. With a shaking hand, a bath towel was produced from thin air: clean, folded, smelling sharply of ozone and laundry detergent.

Aziraphale took it with a smirk, heart pounding in his chest. Right. Final speech. Whether he makes it or breaks it, this was the deciding point.

"I think it's best if I'm left alone from now on, don't you think?" Aziraphale finished. If he was up in Heaven, he would wait for orders, for mercy, but Crowley would make the demand first. He would seize his opportunity and use it for all it was worth. 

He waited for everyone in the room, including the archangel to comply -- because Aziraphale wouldn't rest until he knew that the biggest source of Holy Water was going to stay far away from the demon -- then he gave a sharp smile. No warmth, plenty of mockery. It wasn't exactly the Crowley he knew, but only he was privy to that side of him, anyway.

"Right," he said, with finality. 

He dried himself off in what he'd hoped looked like an easy manner, then dropped the towel into the tub itself. He miracled any of the remaining moisture away with a cool snap. He had to force his heart to calm as he dressed himself, saving the glasses for last. 

Should he exit with a snippy remark? No, he decided, best not to push it. He sauntered out, revelling in the way that everyone in the room discreetly backed up a bit. Hastur, in particular, looked a touch constipated, which Aziraphale took as “dealing with a storm of emotions that he couldn’t even name.” He bared his teeth in a smug grin as he left. 

He lingered in the hall after the door had closed, just for a moment. 

"The...what about the angel?" Beelzebub asked.

"Oh, I haven't made the trip back up yet. If it's anything like this, I'd expect that they'd let him out but…"

"But?" Dagon asked, tone impatient.

"Well, Aziraphale did cause a lot of trouble for us. I wouldn't be surprised if Gabriel wanted to keep an eye on him for a few decades, at least."

Aziraphale's stomach plummeted. No. _No_. Crowley wouldn't last up in Heaven. At least in Hell, Hellfire wasn't a daily commodity. Heaven kept disgustingly beautiful fonts, even fountains, of Holy Water on display at all times. Just a simple splash, just a question on their mind, and Crowley was doomed. 

He booked it to the elevator, as fast as he could without breaking his careless steps. He would've taken the front entrance, but panic was bubbling and he wasn't sure how much he could hide it before he started to give himself away. Down a series of poorly lit halls (the others were poorly lit for effect; _these_ were dim because of neglect and bad maintenance. It made a world of difference in ambiance) there was an elevator, the only direct method to get to Heaven from Hell, and vice-versa. As he pressed the button, he forced himself to think with reason. He couldn't very well barge into Heaven, not as he was, even on Michael's promise not to interfere. Maybe he could just hide behind the panels of the elevator, and if he heard anything, or if he felt Crowley's spirit in pain he'd…he'd…he wasn't sure what he'd do, but he would do _something._

When the doors finally opened, he saw a flash of cream fabric as his own arm reached out. The face he saw, masked behind his own, was a beacon of light in a raging ocean of dread and fear. Aziraphale, so relieved at seeing Crowley that his heart nearly burst, grasped his hand and let himself be pulled in for a hug, allowing the demon to hook his chin over his shoulder. For once taller than him, Aziraphale buried his face in his hair. He willed away the faint remains of the harshly antiseptic scent of Heaven, past the disguising scent of himself, and focusing in on _Crowley_ , who smelled like home. He shielded him from the halls of Hell as the doors slid shut and the elevator began to ascend again.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered, so close to his ear that only Aziraphale could hear it; even if they were out of earshot.

Aziraphale pressed his lips into the crown of Crowley’s head. “And I love you,” he breathed.

He felt Crowley's own arms grip him tightly, fisting into his jacket and squeezing the breath from him. But that only made the hug better, for Aziraphale. Being held so tightly by the one he loved was a reminder that everything was okay, that _Crowley_ was okay. The demon pulled back, hands framing the angel's borrowed face. His eyes, behind the blue of Aziraphale's, searched him for any damage. The angel gave a smile back, before he too looked for any harm to the demon.

"I was so worried," Aziraphale admitted. "I hated that they had you. Especially seeing them _kidnap you,_ it was-- it was _horrifying._ "

"Me too," Crowley answered. "It took everything I had not to think about…" his voice cracked on the last word. 

One of Aziraphale's hands, currently Crowley's, twitched and fluttered over the angel's corporation. They hovered over the dark buttons of his jacket, his shoulders, brushing ever-so-delicately at the back of his head, feeling for blood-matted hair or a bump. Either could be easily miracled away, it wasn't like Hastur was using a particularly Hellish crowbar to brain Aziraphale-as-Crowley, but it was the thought that counted. One of Crowley's hands, currently in possession of Aziraphale, reached out and grasped the wandering hand, squeezing in comfort. Both of them were tense, every muscled coiled to run, or fight, in case they were somehow ambushed. Neither moved away from the embrace. The air between them crackled with an unspoken desire, old as their relationship itself, and Aziraphale longed with all his being to be even closer. To damn both of their sides and finally pull Crowley in. To stop denying them both of something that was so _good._

"How was your trial?" Aziraphale asked instead, careful in his inflections. He wasn't sure if they were in the clear, yet. "Are you alright?"

A shadow crossed Crowley’s face before passing into something akin to soothing. "It, uh. It was a farce. But I'm fine, a--" he cut himself off. He let go of Aziraphale, touching his fingers to his temples with closed eyes. After a moment, he went almost limp with relief, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "All clear, no one's watching. I'm fine, _angel._ "

Aziraphale felt his heart do a pleasant little flip, before Crowley seemed to realize something and frown again. He reached up, once again cupping Aziraphale's -- Crowley's… _the face within which an angel was currently residing,_ with a feather light touch. It was like his hands had no where else that they'd rather be than gently holding the angel, and Aziraphale was more than happy to indulge them.

"What about you? Did they do anything to you?" He asked, voice soft and tinged with worry.

Aziraphale put a hand over Crowley's...or his own. _Goodness, this switch is a migraine to keep track of_ , he thought with mild chagrin. Very mild, however: leftover anxiety and newfound hope were far more present.

"I'm alright, my dear. They don't deserve you," he said. 

Crowley's face, despite the demon's best efforts, was always easy for Aziraphale to read. Seeing the look of slowly dawning relief and _love_ , pure and sweet, on his own face was strange but welcome. He couldn’t wait to see it on Crowley’s own features. 

"Swap back?" Crowley murmured.

"Alright," Aziraphale said. "But might I suggest something more…intimate, than a handshake?"

The responding grin was bright enough to light all of Hell. "I'm game, angel. Whatever you got," He glanced about the dingy elevator. "Erm. On second thought…whatever wouldn't give us tetanus, if we were human. Principle of the thing. Hate to get your body dirty right before you get it back." 

Aziraphale laughed. "Plenty of time for _that_ , I hope." 

Crowley was silent for just a moment, jaw forming a little "o" of shock and his eyes sparkling with interest, before pulling Aziraphale down into a searing kiss. 

Even with the knowledge that they were safe from prying eyes, it was desperate. Six thousand years of longing, in addition to the last forty-odd minutes of ceaseless worrying; all of it was spoken into the kiss. Aziraphale's eyes slid shut behind the glasses, but he still saw stars behind them. His soul sang with joy, all of it focused on Crowley. The joy of loving him, of being loved by him, of the freedom to love him for the rest of time, and joy because he was safe, _here_ , and _kissing Aziraphale._ His mind buzzed with love, coherent thoughts fizzing out before they could start. He was overcome by their combined smells of fresh soil and old books and new cologne and old perfume, and of wine and food and glorious, blessed, _Earth_. Aziraphale gently pushed Crowley against the panel next to the doors, because he wasn't sure whether either would be able to stand without the support. As it was, he could barely think straight. 

Aziraphale's long fingers found their way into his own jacket lapels, pulling Crowley closer and deepening the kiss. His other hand went to Crowley's short blond curls, running through them over and over again. _Safe, safe, safe_ , his soul sang, but it still wasn't enough close enough. Distantly, he felt Crowley's arms snake around his body, curving protectively around his neck and his waist, where the thumb was running circles into his hip. Aziraphale made a rather unbecoming noise at the contact, somewhere between a content sigh and a desperate whine, yet it still had Crowley smiling against his lips. 

Somewhere in the overwhelming sensations of kissing Crowley, his fingers became shorter and softer, and the lapel of the waistcoat he had grasped like a drowning person holds a life preserver turned into a stylish grey necktie. The hair under his palm changed texture, leading to a delicious shiver that ran through him. The hand at his waist spread out, yet lost none of its protective aura. The first real coherent thought that he had for what seemed like eternity was, _surely, this isn't what humans think of when they say, 'where one ends and another begins?'_

Slowly, they broke the kiss. Or, at least, they tried to, before one of them would lose focus and chase the other's lips with their own, restarting the cycle. Eventually, though, they did break apart; not for need of air, but for need of each other, to see and know that this was only the beginning. Aziraphale opened his eyes, seeing Crowley's hair -- red as a sunset again -- splayed out against the cool metal of the elevator like a halo. Carefully, he moved his hand to the knocked-askew glasses. He paused, waiting until Crowley nodded, then pushed up and out of his eyes, and Aziraphale revelled in the soft, tender look that stared back. Once the glasses were secure at the top of his head, Aziraphale rubbed a thumb over Crowley's cheekbone, watching his eyes shutter closed again. 

"And here I was, thinking I had the monopoly on temptations," Crowley said, his voice fond. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but then the elevator finally stopped with a small shudder, the doors sliding open with a _ding_. The two of them stepped out; both slightly hasty with fear that it might move again in either direction. Once again on solid Earth, Crowley adjusted the tie Aziraphale had crumpled. The latter looked rather pleased with himself as he straightened his waistcoat. It must've shown, since Crowley gave a warm scoff as he replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

"Well. _That_ was certainly playing with fire," Aziraphale said, in a sotto voice. 

He held out his arm. Crowley wound his own around it, holding his hand firmly in his own. He seemed to be gradually regaining his bearings. 

"Tempt you to a spot of lunch?" Crowley asked, with a roguish grin.

Aziraphale beamed back at him. "Temptation accomplished."

They walked out of the imposing glass building and out into the sunny afternoon, to the Ritz, enjoying the first day of the rest of their lives. 

**Author's Note:**

> Will I finally get off my ass and write something other than them confessing their undying love for each other with underlying pining, and vaguely inserting my own feelings vis-a-vis LGBT+ religion? Yes. But not today.  
> I like to think that Michael just sorta fucked around on Earth for a bit before coming back to get the Holy Water; once you're back up in Heaven, it's time to come back down anyway, and Hell is probably not a fun place to hang around.  
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
